The Runaway Jury

A few minutes passed. She carefully watched the door behind the bench, and when the court reporter came out with a cup of coffee, Marlee knew the Judge could not be far behind. She took an envelope from her purse, waited a second, then walked a few feet to one of the deputies guarding the front door. She flashed a comely smile and said, "Could you do me a favor?"

He almost smiled in return and noticed the envelope. "I’ll try."

"I’ve gotta run. Could you hand this to that gentleman over there in the corner? I don’t want to interrupt him."

The deputy squinted in the direction she was pointing, across the courtroom. "Which one?"

"The heavyset man in the middle, with the goatee, dark suit."

At this moment, the bailiff entered from behind the bench and shouted, "Court come to order!"

"What’s his name?" the deputy asked, his voice lower.

She handed him the envelope and pointed to the name on it. "Rankin Fitch. Thanks." She patted him on the arm and vanished from the courtroom.

Fitch leaned down the row and whispered something to an associate, then made his way to the rear of the courtroom as the jury returned. He’d seen enough for one day. Fitch typically spent little time in the courtroom once the juries were selected. He had other means of monitoring the trial.

The deputy stopped him at the door and handed him the envelope. Fitch was startled to see his name in print. He was an unknown, a nameless shadow who introduced himself to no one and lived under an assumed name. His D.C. firm was called Arlington West Associates, about as bland and nondescript as he could imagine. No one knew his name-except of course his employees, his clients, and a few of the lawyers he hired. He glared at the deputy without muttering a "Thank you," then stepped into the atrium, still staring in disbelief at the envelope. The printed letters were no doubt from a feminine hand. He slowly opened it, and removed a single sheet of white paper. Printed neatly in the center was a note: "Dear Mr. Fitch: Tomorrow, juror number two, Easter, will wear a gray pullover golf shirt with red trim, starched khakis, white socks, and brown leather shoes, lace-up."

Jose the driver sauntered over from a water fountain and stood like an obedient watchdog beside his boss. Fitch reread the note, then looked blankly at Jose. He walked to the door, opened it slightly, and asked the deputy to step outside the courtroom.

"What’s the matter?" the deputy asked. His position was inside, against the door, and he was a man who followed orders.

"Who gave you this?" Fitch asked as nicely as was possible for him. The two deputies manning the metal detector were watching curiously.

"A woman. I don’t know her name."

"When did she give it to you?"

"Just before you left. Just a minute ago."

With that, Fitch looked quickly around. "Do you see her here?"

"Nope," he answered after a cursory look. "Can you describe her for me?"

He was a cop, and cops are trained to notice things. "Sure. Late twenties. Five six, maybe five seven. Short brown hair. Brown eyes. Pretty damned good-looking. Slim."

"What was she wearing?"

He hadn’t noticed, but he couldn’t admit it. "Uhm, a light-colored dress, sort of a beige, cotton, buttons down the front."

Fitch absorbed this, thought a second, asked, "What did she say to you?"

"Not much. Just asked me to hand this to you. Then she was gone."

"Anything unusual about the way she talked?"

"No. Look, I need to get back inside."

"Sure. Thanks."

Fitch and Jose descended the steps and roamed the corridors of the first floor. They walked outside and strolled around the courthouse, both smoking and acting as if they were out for a bit of fresh air.

THE VIDEO DEPOSITION of Jacob Wood had taken two and a half days to complete while he was alive. Judge Harkin, after editing the fights among the lawyers, the interruptions of the nurses, and the irrelevant portions of testimony, had pared it down nicely to a mere two hours and thirty-one minutes.

It seemed like days. Listening to the poor man give his personal history of smoking was interesting, to a point, but the jurors soon wished Harkin had cut more. Jacob started smoking Redtops at the age of sixteen because all of his buddies smoked Redtops. He soon had the habit and was up to two packs a day. He quit Redtops when he left the Navy because he got married, and his wife convinced him to smoke something with a filter. She wanted him to quit. He couldn’t, so he started smoking Bristols because the ads claimed lower tar and nicotine. By the age of twenty-five he was smoking three packs a day. He remembered this well because their first child was born when Jacob was twenty-five, and Celeste Wood warned him he wouldn’t live to see his grandchildren if he didn’t stop smoking. She refused to buy cigarettes when she shopped, so Jacob did it himself. He averaged two cartons a week, twenty packs, and he usually picked up another pack or two until he could purchase by the carton.

He’d been desperate to quit. He once put ’em down for two weeks, then sneaked out of bed at night to start again. He’d cut back a few times; to two packs a day, then to one pack a day, then before he knew it he was back to three. He’d been to doctors and he’d been to hypnotists. He tried acupuncture and nicotine gum. But he simply couldn’t stop. He couldn’t after he was diagnosed with emphysema, and he couldn’t after he was told he had lung cancer.

It was the dumbest thing he’d ever done, and now at the age of fifty-one, he was dying for it. Please, he implored between coughs, if you’re smoking, stop. Jerry Fernandez and Poodle glanced at each other.

Jacob turned melancholy when he talked about the things he’d miss. His wife, kids, grandkids, friends, trolling for redfish around Ship Island, etc. Celeste started crying softly next to Rohr, and before long Millie Dupree, number three, next to Nicholas Easter, was rubbing her eyes with a Kleenex.

Finally, the first witness spoke his last words and the monitors went blank. His Honor thanked the jury for a fine first day, and promised more of the same tomorrow. He turned serious and launched into a dire warning against discussing this case with anyone, not even a spouse. Also, and more importantly, if anyone in any way tried to initiate contact with a juror, please report it immediately. He hammered them on this point for a good ten minutes, then dismissed them until 9 A.M.

FITCH HAD TOYED with the idea of entering Easter’s apartment before, but now it was necessary. And it was easy. He sent Jose and an operative named Doyle to the apartment building where Easter lived. Easter, of course, was at the time confined to the jury box and suffering along with Jacob Wood. He was being watched closely by two of Fitch’s men, just in case court was suddenly adjourned.

Jose stayed in the car, near the phone, and watched the front entryway as Doyle disappeared inside. Doyle walked up one flight of stairs and found Apartment 312 at the end of a semi-lit hallway. There was not a sound from the neighboring apartments. Everyone was at work.

He shook the loose-fitting doorknob, then held it firmly as he slid an eight-inch plastic strip down the facing. The lock clicked, the knob turned. He gently pushed the door open two inches, and waited for the alarm to either beep or sound. Nothing. The apartment building was old and low-rent, and the fact that Easter had no alarm system didn’t surprise Doyle.

He was inside in an instant. Using a small camera with a flash attachment, he quickly photographed the kitchen, den, bathroom, and bedroom. He took close-ups of the magazines on the cheap coffee table, the books stacked on the floor, the CD’s on top of the stereo, and the software littered around the rather fancy PC. Being careful what he touched, he found a gray pullover golf shirt with red trim hanging in the closet, and took a photo of it. He opened the refrigerator and took a photo of the contents, then the cabinets and under the sink.